


Kyrie Eleison

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-15
Updated: 2005-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1637039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean do what they do. Mid-S1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kyrie Eleison

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hederahelix

 

 

As strange as it would sound to someone with a nine-to-five, two point five kids, a crumbling marriage, no sex life, and a mortgage, Sam and Dean Winchester have a boring routine. In the morning, Sam wakes up at the asscrack of dawn, deliberately making as much noise as possible to wake his brother. They then have a fight, usually along the lines of:

"FUCK OFF, SAMMY! Stop rattling your goddamned change! I'm going to fucking knock your balls off with a bat!"

"Shut up, Dean!"

This is followed by Sam slouching out into the grey, heavy dawn to mainline coffee and draw sketches of his latest devastating dreams of murder, mayhem, and personal tragedy.

Later, jittery from caffeine, he yanks the sheet and nasty polyester bedspread off Dean, eliciting more blue language and surly invectives libeling Sam's sexual performance.

Shower, breakfast, front seat of the car, gas stations, cock rock, Mountain Dew and Coca-cola, Pringles, Sam brooding, Dean cracking lame jokes.

To break up the monotony of thousands and thousands of miles on the road with nothing but the giant elephant in the backseat ruffling their hair with its breath and the knowledge that finding dad isn't going to fix the shit that's broken in their lives, they wind each other up and torture one another with childish one-upmanship.

Dean turns AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" down from deafening to teeth-rattling.

"So, you ever fuck Jess in the ass?" He says it with a full-blown grin and a bob of his head--a challenge.

" _What_?" Sam chokes on his Coke, spitting it all over the hand that he raises reflexively to block the spray from going all over the car.

"You ever screw anyone else? How 'bout them? You ever get to hit that?" How Dean manages to say the most disgusting, fucked up things with a smile, Sam has no idea.

Sam glares at Dean. "You ever get that syphilis cleared up, Deano?"

Sam has a mean streak, and he's always the one to bring up whispered confidences as weapons. As soon as Dean's smile collapses into betrayal and anger, Sam regrets it, but it won't stop him from bringing up worse when Dean pushes him too far.

Sam hates himself, hates Dean for making him into the sort of person who says the sort of shit that can't be taken back, hates their dad for fucking them over from the cradle, and hates himself a little more for getting so caught up in his own cycle of family drama he forgets half the time to mourn Jess as hard as he should. He's conflicted, though, because he also didn't realize how much he missed Dean until they were back into their life-long pattern of pushing too hard and loving each other in the static moments of what never gets said.

*

"Demonic chain emails?" Sam looks over the laptop at Dean. Starbucks is their friend--free wifi and a steady stream of people who don't notice how long they linger or try to listen in to what they hiss and whisper. You can even find one in the ass-end of Nowhere, Iowa. "You can't be serious. This is lame, even for you."

They sit at the dark wood table, hunched in on each other, glaring back and forth and daring each other to say _something_ neither one of them ever does. Sam isn't even sure what the something is.

"It's close by. Whatever, _you're_ lame. Look at your shoes," Dean scoffs, flicking a stirring stick at Sam's face.

Sam glances down at his black and white Nikes. "What's wrong with my shoes?" Granted, Jess had picked his clothes for the last couple of years, and, yes, he has reverted back to not even attempting to figure out what "matching" means.

"They're fucking lame." Dean laughs.

Sam represses the urge to grab the back of Dean's head and smash his face into his keyboard.

"And somehow my lack of fashion sense decreases the level of stupidity of deadly chain mails?" Sometimes Sam just hates Dean on principle, nothing to back it, just heat in his face and a stiletto in his belly and the urge to hit and shoot and...he doesn't like to think about the other options.

Sam turns back to the bulletin board.

> A girl meets a boy on her yahoo messenger.
> 
> crazy1 86:hey baby!!!  
> h0tNsPiCy91: whos dis???  
> crazy1 86:ur secret admirer!!!!!  
> h0tNsPiCy91: o really.... quite lyin! whos dis???  
> crazy1 86:i loved u the first time a [SHOULD BE LOWERCASE "I"?] stared in your eyes...   
> crazy1 86:i think about u everyday... you are my dream come true.  
> crazy1 86: we met once! i dont think u remember tho.  
> crazy1 86: i cut myself because the pain takes away my feelings of u.  
> crazy1 86: tonight u will see me some time tonight....  
> h0tNsPiCy91: ..WHO IS THIS!?!?!?  
> crazy1 86:dont worry.... ill take very good care of you...
> 
> crazy1 86 had signed off.
> 
> the girl was so scared she locked alll her doors and windows. she made sure her room was secured. she was so scared if it was a joke or for real. she didnt know when he was going to come. the girl was frighten so she decided to sleep with her little sister. the girl dozed off quikly. then she heards a knock on the window. the girl slowly walked to the window. it started knocking louder. the girl looked through the windows and saw nothing. just some of the tree branches. the girl went back to bed with her sister. the bed was wet and a pretty smells horrid. maybe her sister wet the bed... the girl checked and found blood everywhere. the girl panick. she didnt know what to do. she ran and hid in the closet incase the guy was their for her. while looking through the cracks of the closet the girl saw a shadow. it was dark so she couldnt figure out who it was. she started to get more frighten. the man crept closer to the closet. the girl closed her eyes as if it was a dream. then suddenly he open the closet door and pulled her out. her parents found her dead. she was skinned all the way and was hunged in her sisters closet.
> 
> PART 2...
> 
> 2 years after the the sisters deaths, the her parents got pregnant with a baby boy the girls room became a guest bedroom and the little sisters room where the murder took place became the babys room. the baby grew up to be a secessful kid. one night he was on the computer and got a instant messege.
> 
> h0tNsPiCy91:hey lil bro!!!  
> 2seXay4u: who the f is this?  
> h0tNsPiCy91: its your big sis.  
> 2seXay4u: i never had a sister. im an only child.  
> 2seXay4u:this is some kinda joke huh?  
> h0tNsPiCy91: mom and dad never told you?  
> h0tNsPiCy91: i died 15 years ago with your other older sister.  
> h0tNsPiCy91:we were murdered in your room which was once my little sisters room. she was killed in bed when i was sleeping and i was killed in the closet and skinned to death.  
> 2seXay4u:quite lying. i never had a sister. if i did my parents would tell me. whatever. your stupid.  
> h0tNsPiCy91: you dont believe me? well if you wanna look in your closet floor.  
> h0tNsPiCy91: i carved my name, time and date i was being murdered. then i carved my little sister name.  
> h0tNsPiCy91: if you dont believe me little brother check the internet. type in ''smith sisters murdered anonymously''.  
> h0tNsPiCy91: i gtg little brother. i love you. and mom and dad soo much. i cant believe they kept us a secret from you. they should burn in hell.
> 
> the boy checked the closet. he saw the carvings. was it true? he surfed the internet and everything was their about the anonymous murder in the house. the next morning the boy went downstairs. it was so queit. maybe mom and dad was sleeping.. hours later the boy found his parents in their closets skinned and hung. then he found more carvings on the ground. it says
> 
> '' I TOLD YOU I WASNT LYING. LITTLE BROTHER, I LOVED MOM AND DAD.... BUT THEY KEPT ME A SECRET. I CANT BELIVE IT. WELL IM FREE FROM THIS COLD WORLD. I WONT HURT YOU LIKE HOW THEY DIED. I LOVE YOU!
> 
> \- LISA SMITH ''
> 
> this is a death chain. if you dont send this in the next hour the parents will kill you at night. they will kill you
> 
> DONT BELEIVE ME? LOOK IT UP N GOOGLE

"This is not real, man." Sam thumps the monitor to punctuate his derision. He sighs. Wild goose chases like this one keep Dean busy, but they just make Sam tired. More tired. Exhausted down to his bone marrow.

Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. "Dude, it's only about two hundred miles from here. Seriously, you didn't even listen to this part: `Smith sisters murdered anonymously.'" He pauses dramatically. Sam breathes deeply to prevent himself from strangling him. "'In 1990, two sisters were brutally murdered in the small-town community of Plainfield, Wisconsin. Lisa Smith, 19; and her sister, Sarah Smith, 15; were attacked in their parents' home on the night of November 17th, around 1:30AM. Sarah was found stabbed and strangled in the bed where she had been sleeping. Her sister Lisa was found hanging in her sister's closet, skinned. Police conducted an extensive investigation, but to no avail. The motives for the attack were never discovered, nor was the attacker ever found. The only lead authorities had was a log found in Lisa's computer, showing a series of threatening messages sent through an Internet Relay Chat service. The case was closed in October of 2000.'"

"Oh, _that_?" Sam leans forward, resting his forearms against the table. "The vengeful spirit of a sibling murdering the child born after his or her death? Dean, that legend's been around forever. Forget about chat programs. It predates _electricity_. Gimme a break."

"It's the inclusion of the town name I'm interested in. Would it hurt to check it out, Sammy?" Dean sips his coffee making his "adult" face.

Sam hates it when Dean uses his own analness against him.

"Fine!" Sam slouches back down in his seat, glancing at Dean's shoes casually as he does.

"See, Sammy, these are men's boots." Dean sticks his leg out, displaying his steel-toed boots. Sam grabs his knee and pinches back and forth as hard as he can until Dean howls in pain. He feels almost happy, smiling lopsided and easy until Dean looks up at him, his face flushed and mouth too red, with a scandalized expression on his face. Sam sits back and sticks him hands in his pockets, acting interested in some girl over by the counter.

"Sam, it's ok to be happy sometimes. The dead don't begrudge a smile." Dean sighs and punches Sam's shoulder slightly. Dean's one of the worst judges of character in the world. Sam still smiles involuntarily at Dean's punch of affection.

*

Just like Sam had thought, the whole email death spook-fest thing is a total wash. He doesn't get much of a chance to sublimate his...whatever, and rub Dean's face in it, though. They get a call forwarded from their dad's distress line about demonic activity in Madison.

"Buncha cows, rolling nothing as far as the eye can see, cold as a witch's left tit in a brass bra in the winter, yup, what folks around here need is to call up demons for fun!" Dean slaps his hands together and pockets his cell.

Sam reaches out his empty hand. "Gimme the keys." He motions with his fingers in tiny little curls. "How many Mountain Dews have you had today?"

Dean reaches in his pocket and pulls out his keys without fighting the issue. "Bitch, bitch, bitch, you're an old hag, Sammy. You're like having a wife, but without the benefits of the Tuesday night sex."

Sam rounds the hood of the car laughing. He can admit that Dean can be funny--rarely, but sometimes.

"I'm tired of your wet towels all over the bathroom floor. And would it kill you to learn to wash a dish?" Sam shoots over the roof as he opens the driver's door.

"I feel my sperm count bottoming out, Sammy!" Dean's voice carries all the way across the parking lot.

*

The thing about demons and demonic possession is that the media has really built up people's expectations about how to solve the problem.

Dean holds out the black suits, black shirts, and collars.

"Gotta be done, Sammy."

Sam sighs and snatches the priest-iform out of Dean's hand. This is going to be a bad day. Not the kind of bad day precipitated by nightmares, visions, and images of beheaded children or spectral rape that makes him wake gasping, but bad on a personal level.

"They won't do what we say if we don't." Dean shakes his head, sighs. Dean hates suits, no matter what kind. Sam hates himself for being a fucking sick freak, and Dean for being so damned oblivious about, well, everything.

Sam has issues. Issues about vestments and uniforms and how hot people look in them. Dean strips right there, by the side of the road, hops from foot to foot pulling on his dress pants. Sam rolls his eyes and climbs into the car to perform the feats of contortion necessary to undress and dress in the vehicle that sometimes seems shorter than Sam is long.

Dean, straightening his collar, climbs into the driver's seat as Sam twists his cuffs into place. Sam only looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

"Come on, do I look that stupid?" Dean twists the rearview in a move that Sam's surprised doesn't break it right off. He combs his hair down with his fingers and straightens his collar again. "What? I look fine. I look sort of hot, in a straight-laced, priestly way."

Dean turns, smiling bright enough to send a beacon into space. Sam looks out the passenger side window. He's not going to look, and he's not going to respond to what Dean just said.

"Fine! You look about twelve, by the way. You get to be the priest-apprentice." Dean turns over the engine and pops the car into gear.

"We're not Jedi, Dean, priests don't have apprentices," Sam snaps. "Just remember not to swear or leer at any nubile young girls."

Dean sighs. "Maybe you should handle the talking to the locals."

Sam sighs. It's going to be a long, long afternoon.

*

The girl who had called them explained to Sam, with a straight face--

"So, you know, we were watching _Buffy_..." At this point, Dean digs a sharp finger into the small of Sam's back. The "I saw it on _Buffy_ " thing always amps Dean up. "And, well, like, I mean, who knew it was _real_?"

Amber is nineteen, blonde, and an odd cross between a hippie and a hoochie. Her friend, Mimi, is red-haired, also nineteen and currently possessed by some variety of demon.

"Where did you get the book?" Sam asks with his most forbearing voice.

"Ebay," Dean whispers behind his hand right into Sam's ear. Dean smells like motor oil and smoke.

"Ebay," Amber replies.

Amber and Mimi's folklore professor somehow had John Winchester's phone number, and for some reason--"Like, I don't know _why_ or anything"--had given it to Amber.

"Banging the professor," Dean whispers as Sam restrains Mimi--who's glowing softly yellow and whose liver seems to be on the outside of her abdomen. Sam has kept Dean behind him all afternoon, averting his face when Dean tries to converse, swallowing his returning zingers, and generally denying absolutely what he thinks about Dean in a priest's collar.

"Sammy," Dean hisses, shaking a bible at Sam and drawing a circle of salt around the bed they'd pulled into the middle of the room. "What's your damage? Huh?"

"Let's just do this." Sam sighs. He chants the Latin as Dean stares a hole in the side of his head. Sam thinks of statues of Mary, of the smell of incense choking him, of the slick texture of his mother's rosewood rosary that he kept in his pocket as a good luck charm during tests. He doesn't think about his erection or the fact that Dean on his knees praying, with his hands clasped and his head bowed, is really doing it for him.

*

"Well, that sucked." Dean's got a black eye, fingernail scratches on his cheek, and brimstone scorches all over the front of his vestments.

Sam grits his teeth, the stress from the last couple of hours bleeding away his ability to smooth the edges, make this all just banter and sarcasm and still being alive after facing something a whole lot worse than just being dead.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you taunt the fucking seed of hell, Dean!" How Dean is still alive, and in one piece, Sam just _does not get._ He does everything short of putting a barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger as far as getting himself killed goes, and Sam just can't fucking take the stress all the time. What will happen when Dean taunts the wrong demon, the wrong spirit, the right person?

Sam makes a fatal error--he looks over at Dean, back lit by a street light, hair in chaos, the cheekbone under his right eye split and bruised, his freckles dark grey on his pale white face. His shirt and jacket still smoke slightly from the brimstone. His face hardens, ready to fight, and his hand comes up to point at Sam, to hurl accusations or make inappropriate comments about Jess, and Sam just...

There's only so much even Sam can take. He snatches Dean's hand out of the air, pulling Dean against him, and using his height advantage against him. Dean's hair is just long enough to get a good grip of, and Sam yanks Dean's head to the side, exposing his neck, Dean limp and shocked in his arms.

"Sammy..." Dean begins, laughter breaking Sam's name up into a string of sounds not his name at all, just as Sam bends his head and licks Dean's neck along the edge of the collar. Dean's hand clenches around his. "Uhggggggguhhhh." Dean drops the duffle bag he's been carrying and runs his hand up Sam's side from his waist to his armpit.

Sam just wants this little bit. This _one_ thing. The feel of the collar against Dean's neck, the feeling of Dean squirming with his uncontainable life, the feelings inside Sam that he can't voice but mainly revolve around _don't die._

Sam bites at Dean's neck, releasing his hair to sweep his fingers down the side of Dean's injured face, feeling the twitching of his eyelid, the heat of the swelling bruises, the furrows of the scratches, the braile of Dean's freckles, and the scraping nap of his stubble.

"Kiss me." And that's unexpected enough to send Sam's stomach into the soles of his feet and his skin to chill into gooseflesh.

Dean's voice is more broken than every moral Sam's ever had--right here standing on a public sidewalk fetishizing his own brother and ready to give Dean whatever he'd ask for to let Sam fuck him inside out.

And of course Dean would up the ante, push the line, challenge, badger, every single clich of brotherly rivalry.

Sam pulls his mouth away from Dean's neck, from the collar, from the smell of sulfur and burned cotton and Dean's sweat. He blinks once, memorizing--trying to through the hormone haze and the throbbing in his cock--Dean with his heavy mouth half-open, the tip of his tongue sitting right on his bottom lip, the bruises and how utterly beautiful his brother is in black and white and grey and the dark red of fifteen different sins.

And for once perfect, crystalline second, Sam realizes Dean isn't swaggering, and he isn't making this a dare.

Dean doesn't wait on Sam, he lunges up, on his tip-toes and pushes his open mouth against Sam's, shoves his tongue into Sam's mouth, holding his head still with both hands. Sam has to grab his cock, fast, at the base and squeeze hard to keep from coming at the way Dean's tongue fills his mouth, wet and smooth and tasting like Mountain Dew and the cigarettes Dean pretends not to smoke. His mouth, even pulled tight around the kiss, is huge and full and--

Sam runs the back of his hand down from Dean's sternum to his belly and slips the tips of his fingers into Dean's pants.

In a whirl, Dean has him by the lapels slamming him back against the trunk of the car. His tongue withdraws, and his lips ease back slightly. "Sammy, have you ever been to jail?" His mouth moves on Sam's, kissing him with words. Sam knows what Dean means, even if he doesn't actually say it, because that's who they are and that's what they do. Public indecency and lewd and lascivious behavior and Sam almost doesn't care. Almost, but he's not really the kind of person to not care. Dean presses him all the way back, standing between his legs, and licks at the corner of Sam's mouth.

"Sammy--" He pumps his hips against Sam, still holding his lapels, the whine at the back of his throat vibrating against Sam's mouth. Sam understands. Dean is about to blow him in the street, and Sam gets to be the grown up and take the show inside. Sam's annoyed enough by Dean and his fucking passive[-]aggressive bullshit to follow through with their roles. He hates himself all the more because that's exactly what Dean expects.

He shoves Dean back, hard, and Dean stumbles, falls hard on his ass next to the abandoned duffle bag. Dean looks up at him from the ground, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth--lit by the street light in his priest's collar and burned clothes and abused face--and smiles.

They're both thinking about the ass-fucking Jessica conversation from earlier in the week, and they both know it.

Sam pulls himself away from the trunk of the car, reaching up and yanking the white, starched collar out of his shirt, and stomps around the side of the car to fling open the passenger door. He climbs into the car slamming the door so hard it rocks the car on its tires. Dean follows very shortly behind him, throwing his own door open and flinging himself inside with more than his normal amount of sighing and grunting.

When he turns the engine over, the stereo kicks out "Don't Fear The Reaper" loud enough to cover the sound of Sam's pulse in his own ears.

The first red light is all screeching tires, Dean slamming on the brakes, and his thick fingers sliding behind Sam's ear, tugging slightly on his hair and tracing the secret stretch of skin covered by shaggy curls and the curl of cartilage. When Dean guns the engine, Sam rolls his forehead against the cool expanse of the car window. His stomach is somewhere in the foot-well, and this is the part where he has time to think about what he's doing, where he stops this, pretends like nothing happened. But at the second red light, Dean's hand tugs him by his hair away from the window and tilts his face up, kissing him upside down, his tongue slipping down the slope of his nose, into the dent above his lip, and straight into his mouth.

The radio station cues up "Panama" by Van Halen. When David Lee Roth humps the mike through _Yeah, we're runnin' a little bit hot tonight/ I can barely see the road from the heat comin' off of it/ Ah, you reach down, between my legs/ Ease the seat back,_ Dean makes a sound loud enough to be heard over the music. He looks in the rearview and pulls the car into a parking lot.

He turns off the ignition but leaves the power on so the radio keeps playing and Dean does just what Sam was hoping he would--he leans over Sam and pops the handle to collapse Sam's seat back completely. His chest presses into Sam's and he breathes against Sam's lips, tongue jumping out suddenly to wedge Sam's mouth open. Sam blinks once, mouth falling open and tongue jittering out to meet Dean's. Dean's tongue and teeth and nasty groans distract Sam enough that he isn't ready for Dean's fingers undoing his belt and popping the button on his slacks and just going for it as he twists and presses and groans as his knee hits something hard.

Sam watches in freeze frame as Dean pulls away, leans back, face in shadow and priest's collar shining white in all the black of his clothes and the night and the foggy cloister of the car. The radio plays "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath as Dean reclines his own seat all the way then flips around so that his feet are in the backseat and his head is by the steering wheel. He flops over on his belly, and Sam covers his eyes with his arm. He bites his fingers and tries not to...

Dean licks his belly by his navel, running his tongue parallel to the hair below his bellybutton. Sam doesn't even try to repress the instinct to grab Dean's head and shove him onto his cock.

Sam tries to focus on Ozzy's unintelligible mumbling, but when Dean's lips wrap around the head of his cock and his tongue slides over the circumcision scar, Sam comes, thrusting his hips so hard he dislodges Dean and reaches down to jack himself off through it without shame.

" _God_ damn it, Sammy!" Dean's voice rattles the windows. Sam blinks his eyes open slowly, struggling against post-orgasmic lethargy and endorphin stupor to see Dean with his legs braced on the seat of the car, head thrown back, muscles in his neck tensed under his priest's collar with his pants around his thighs jacking himself off looking at Sam's half hard cock and semen all over his pants and belly.

"Oh fuck," Sam moans, cock twitching and hurting. Dean's eyes snap to Sam's face, and they make eye contact. Dean comes, smacking his head on the steering wheel. Sam misses the good stuff, because he can't pull his eyes off of Dean's face slack, his lips wide open and the rest of his face lost in darkness.

Dean collapses. He wipes his hand against his shirt.

Sam must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he remembers is Dean leaning over him, hands under his shoulders, bitching. "How can a dude as skinny as you be so fucking heavy? Come one, Sammy, fuck, let's get in bed, I'm fucking exhausted."

Sam lets Dean manhandle him out of the car and sort of really enjoys the way Dean keeps his arm wrapped around his waist as they walk to the motel room.

*

 


End file.
